


The Lonely Girls Club

by Trixen



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The L Word
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:18:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4693511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trixen/pseuds/Trixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Buffy sends Angel to Acathla's Hell, she inadvertently wanders into a lesbian bar and meets Bette Porter, who stalks and seduces her effortlessly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lonely Girls Club

She has her leather pants on, so that everybody knows she’s not to be fucked with. They are the color of red balloons and her shrunken tank top is as white as snow. Her nipples show through the fabric. Leaning her elbows on the bar top, she sips from the thin stemmed glass in front of her. The martini is sharp tasting and the room smells warm, of biscuits, salt. Slowly, slowly, she knows she is being turned inside out.  
  
Another long long drink of the martini. It was all she knew how to order. Her mouth opens like an empty cave and she takes in more vodka, glad for the moment that there are no men in this place, no men at all. Just the reassuring familiarity of women.  
  
“Want to dance?”  
  
Buffy turns at the sound of the words spilling out. They were spoken languidly, from the throat of a woman.  
  
_Oh_. Oh oh. This is a place where women _want_ other women. She realizes that suddenly, foolishly, and feels like she might just start crying if things don’t start going her way. It was too long of a bus ride, really and she left the sword congealing on the floor of the mansion and what is she supposed to do _now_? Become a LESBIAN or something?  
  
“I—“ she falters. She really _looks_ at the woman. She is older—probably in her late twenties. Milky coffee skin, beautiful really, smooth rich glowing. Dark hair, like almonds. Her collarbones are winged, reaching to the very tips of her shoulders. She is tall, slender almost to the point of thinness, impossibly elegant in a way that Buffy finds vaguely annoying. “I—I’m sorry—“  
  
“You don’t dance?” The woman’s voice is like wet silk and she sounds teasing, as if she already _knows_.  
  
But what?  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
“I—“ the name ‘Anne’ almost falls out, from the cave, but she swallows it back. “Buffy.”  
  
“Bette.”  
  
“Two B’s.” That was well put. She winces at her own teenager-ness. But Bette is smiling at her, in the slow way that sort of reminds Buffy of the way she moves across a graveyard toward a vampire. Stalkerish. Well, lesbians _do_ eat their—oh no, no. She goes red and flaming and slams down the martini. It is as clear as everything was after the mouth closed and swallowed up her lover. Clear as crystal: time to go. “I’m sorry, I—“  
  
“You keep apologizing. Stop that and dance with me.” Bette holds out her hand. “Well? I won’t ask a third time.”  
  
“You _told_ me—“ Buffy points out, and can’t help but smile. A stretch of her lips, it’s easy. Goldfrapp is playing. The darkness is soothing; a tonic. Reminding her of The Bronze in better days. “Ok. But my drink—“  
  
“I’ll buy you another.”  
  
Bette is liquid fast, leading her to the floor, taking her in, until their bodies are – touching. Maybe she doesn’t want to leave room for second guessing or words. There are none. But—the touching. Buffy feels every point achingly well. When was the last time? The night that smelled of rain, the gentle drop of the kiss on her shoulder, strong arms and back, bending and bowing, the tears he left. The tears she left. She feels Bette’s breasts just above hers, the tips of her fingers against flesh, the womansmell that reeks of pain and wonderment.  
  
The hallway just beyond the bathroom is bible-black and hushed. Much much later but not so later that it is crowded with workers or managers, Bette finger fucks Buffy up against the wall. It hurts—it really _really_ hurts but in the good way that happened later with him too, the slick wet good way. Bette seems to know she is grieving—she seems to like the taste of tears.  
  
Buffy’s whole body moves up and down against the wall, her legs are spread wide, the leather falls down around her ankles and her nipples are slippery from Bette’s salvia. Three fingers inside of her, fucking _her_ and much later, months, years later, when she is with Faith, she remembers Bette and she remembers how in that moment, her breaths, her beats, her earth – they echoed.  
  
Everything was colorless and featureless, bodiless and penniless, and she did not know Angel or Acathla; she did not know pain or virtue or suffering. She did not know the sound of her own name.


End file.
